


Zusammenbruch

by Quilljoy



Category: Weiß Kreuz
Genre: Age Difference, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Bad BDSM Etiquette, Canon-Typical Violence, Consensual Sex, D/s, Dysfunctional Relationships, Enemies to Lovers, F/M, Face Slapping, Femdom, Feminization, I mean Schön compares Ken to a dog like multiple times, Pet Play, Rope Bondage, Secret Relationship, Submission, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Whipping, sort off, sorta??, vague suicidal thoughts/mention
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-14
Updated: 2017-04-14
Packaged: 2018-10-18 23:24:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,935
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10627341
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Quilljoy/pseuds/Quilljoy
Summary: Schreient might be no more than a set of pawns, but even a pawn becomes a queen once she crosses the board. Knights, on the other hand, have limited moves.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Het? In my Weiss Kreuz fandom? *le gasp*
> 
> Anyway, this is the femdom story you never asked for but I needed like burning. I know nobody has ever re-watched Weiss in years (too painful, I know), but I want to direct you all to the fact that SCHÖN FIGHTS WITH A FUCKING WHIP WHY ISN'T THIS A THING??? KEN IS THE SUBBIEST SUB EVER??? PLEASE??? SOMEONE JUST PLEASE BE GOOD TO HIM
> 
> (I was having a lot of trouble with the timeline, but then I decided to be like Koyasu and just say "fuck it". )

Chivalry doesn't belong in a battlefield. 

Chivalry is for the likes of Youji, who thinks every woman is a damsel in distress, waiting to be rescued. Even the ones who come at them weaponized, bodies turned sharp and minds sharper still – and Youji, the idiot, falls for that like he hasn't used the same trick over and over again. Playing the charming, dumb blond. 

Ken aims for Schön like he means it, because he does. It's her luck it's only a scratch. She turns into a vicious fucking animal. They all sort of are, he guesses, but he didn't expect to see her features twisted in rage, made more beautiful still by the blood swelling under her eye. 

Guess he kinda sees where Youji is coming from, then. 

It makes Ken try harder for the next time they face off. His arm is swollen and it hurts like a motherfucker when he bench presses, but there's no way Ken's gonna lose anymore. Schön has escaped before. It means he lost, right? He's got the markings to prove it, arm strangled by her whip until it turned purple. Not even Omi's salves have managed to take the bruising away. It'd have been worth it if only by the look on her face once he tore her apart. 

But he hadn't.

He thinks about it, later, when he's hitting the treadmill so violently it shakes beneath his sneakers. Was is because she's cute? No, that can't be. That's the sort of thing Youji would say. Youji, who's bruised all over just because he couldn't lay a hand on Neu. And cute wouldn't be the word, he thinks, for someone who's got ten years on him. 

Ken adjusts the speed setting until his calves complain at every move. He doesn't believe in not hitting women. Not when they've gone and turned to be as monstrous as the creatures they fostered. 

(Not when they were as monstrous as him)

So why?

He remembers the tenderness of Schön's skin, opening up to him as his claws slid above her cheek. Just a scratch. You don't smack a girl in the face, Youji said, like someone who's used to smacking girls in all sort of forbidden places and doesn't get shit for it. It makes Ken fume, and his fingers dig deep into the treadmill bars. Right now, he feels like punching Youji a lot more than Schreient.

Sweat clings to the back of his neck. When his lungs feel about to explode, his fist slams on the panel and cranks the speed even higher. He's hot, he's pissed off, and he can't tear his eyes away from the welts on his arm. 

**

If one could believe in fate, they meet entirely by chance, on account that Koneko no Sumu Ie provides greenery for the enterprise Schreient uses as a cover for their operations and the secretary has taken her leave for the evening. 

Karen will spend the night wondering how Kritiker discovered their money laundering scheme, and why they have sent only a single operative, disarmed but for a flowerpot, in a pink scooter that can't possibly reach over 60km/h. Weiss will wonder if Schreient purposefully called their own cover business, hoping to catch them one by one, and if so – why is Schreient welcoming them, equally surprised, smile slipping away from her lips as she realizes they are alone. For now, however, Karen is only able to stare in disbelief, her wide eyes met with careless lack of concern. She's trained to detect suspicion, but Weiss, she notices, keeps the nonchalant farce of a boy running errands he'd rather be skipping. 

Ken – the nametag says – drops the plant by the arrivals' desk and cleans both hands against his jeans. He's wearing gloves, but not the sort of gloves lined with metal, supposed to kill you. His lips are drawn thin, now, but he nods to the potted plants on the hallway, the ones that are nearly dead.

He looks nice, she thinks, for a fleeting moment.

"I'm supposed to take that out," he says, picture perfect of normalcy. One could hardly imagine the disgruntled teenager in front of her killed people during his night shift. "Can you sign over the form?"

"Excuse me?"

Ken wears tight jeans and a tighter shirt, which he hides under a loose jacket, like he's afraid of flaunting what that assassin training got him. He's tan, strong, and ridiculously young. Karen rubs her head and reminds herself he's been killing people, for God's sake. Youth doesn't last when you get to do that, but God, he looks…

"The form. This is Harada's Pharmaceutic Company, right? You've asked for a replacement for that dead ferns over there."

… normal. Not Karen, though. Despite the bandage on her cheek, concealed by makeup, her hair is done and her shoes are on point. Karen is dressed to kill, more so than when she dons her whip.

And Ken looks just fine.

It irks her.

"You've hit me." She's surprised by the words escaping her lips, soft at they come, though she's on the verge of exploding. The fuse is lit, the pretense is gone. The mask (and Karen is still not sure it's a mask) falls from Siberian's face. She draws a terrified – terrifying – breath and hisses: "On the face!" 

There's a beat before he dares to reply. 

“It could’ve been worse," he says, eyes darting to the signature and then to the plant. "I could’ve aimed for your neck.”

Charming. 

“Is this how you normally talk to women?”

“To the ones that try to kill me, yeah.”

“It’s a miracle they don’t try and do it more often, then.” She bits her tongue, realizing, at once, where they are. Under the bright, cold light of the building entrance, they're watched only by security cameras and the movement on the street outside, where Ken's scooter is parked. "I apologize, can I offer you a glass of water? Before you finish taking the plants with you, that is."

"Yeah." There's the frown. It's minuscule, and it lasts for the split second that takes for Ken to see she's pretending once again. "That'd be great, actually."

Dumb as a brick, but not everyone can be both a model and a PhD in bioengineering. Karen checks out the muscles bulging under his shirt, when he leans forward to drink from his plastic cup, and thinks, very nice indeed. Hard to notice all that when she's fighting for her life. 

Karen crosses her long legs, and it's nice, to see Ken paying attention. 

It's difficult, switching between personas, but she can do it. 

"Must be hard, being Weiss."

"What? Why?"

"All those poor boys. You don't hang out with a lot of women, I suppose."

"We have a flowershop," he says, crossing his arms in self-defense. 

"I know."

She's chiding him for stating the obvious. Like a gentle rap on his knuckles. A flower shop boy. Really? And he is bragging?

He hasn't even brought her flowers. Ferns notwithstanding. 

She'd have settled for an ordinary gift, but Weiss has, obviously, no sense of common courtesy.

"Girls go there," he says instead.

"Wonderful. Have you ever talked to them?"

Karen almost expects him to come up with an imaginary girlfriend, but he keeps his mouth shut this time, and his teeth gritted. 

"I'm done here."

"I trust you this will be kept between us?"

Ken barks with laughter before he smashes the cup, tossing it to the trash.

"I'm gonna need a wheel cart, m'am."

Her eyebrow twitches. 

"You'll find one at the custodial closet. Third door left, boy."

War it is. Which might be why Karen finds herself pressing her business card inside Ken's pocket once he's done, watching he wince under the hair trigger pressure she puts against his back. He thinks she'll kill him with his back turned. 

He's cold enough not to flinch, but the blood rushes to his cheeks once he finds the card in his jeans. 

How novel.

"It might benefit you, you know."

"W-what?"

A trained killer, and she's disconcerted him. Karen can tell Ken hates the uncertainty in his voice as much as she enjoys it.

She's got him. Karen grins, wide and predatory. There are millions of scenarios playing into his head; she could kill him, he knows. They could fight, and they could die. They could blow their cover, or they could play civil. There are a million tiny, insignificant ways they could've been dead before this started. Has she tampered with the water? Are those plants poisonous? Is her signature going into some Kritiker database? How fast will Schreient – and Weiss – hear of this?

Ken could expect a variety of ways for them to end, and he'd be prepared for it, but not this. Not her. 

"Getting to know a woman."

"I don't–!"

"Call me."

He misses the tempo, to her delight.

"I could tell them."

"You could." There's no reason to pretend he could not. It's a gamble, and it's a dangerous one. All it takes is one look at Ken, however, and Karen knows she'll win. "Let's see if you do, hm?"

** 

Nothing like that ever happens to him.

If he were Youji, Ken would have winked flirtatiously and used Schön against her own better judgement. That's what he's doing with Neu, isn't it? Or at least, he better fucking be. No reason for him to be skipping duty otherwise, and certainly no reason for him to look smug, like he's got leverage on them in some sort of pissing match. 

Ken flicks the card between his fingers and holds it against the light. It's plain cardstock paper, coated on both sides. No mystery there. Kitaura Karen, it says, using the latin alphabet right under the characters for her name. There's no company logo, nothing but her name and a phone number. He's considering what to do when someone decides for him, snatching the paper right out of his hand.

"Karen?" Youji says, in an affected tone. "Hmmm, where's this one from, or going to? America? It can't be Australia all over–."

"She's japanese," Ken cuts him, flying out of the couch and straight for Youji's neck. Youji swats him away as if he's a fly. "And it's none of your business." 

"Of course it's my business." He doesn't seem to mind having hit Ken in the injured arm. "How long has it been?" 

"Since what?"

"Since you've gotten laid, obviously." 

And, yeah, Ken walked right into that one, but he tries not to be embarrassed. Youji's the one sleeping with the enemy. Not him, goddammit. So there's no reason for his ears to grow hot. 

"Shut up." 

Ken tears the card away from Youji's hand. He wouldn't be laughing if he knew this was Schreient he's mocking. Tucking the card back into his pocket, Ken flips onto the couch, away from Youji's prying hands. 

"Just saying." Youji shrugs. 

"It's not what you said about Yuriko."

"For God's sake, stop sulking. You know what, tell me about her."

"Can we not talk about this?"

"Come on, is she mixed race? How old is she? Does she have big–"

"Fuck off, Youji!" 

It's like– It's like Youji knows. Not that the woman he's been talking to is Schreient. Youji doesn't have any moral high ground to lecture him about that. But it's like he's transparent, and Youji sees just how he sort of… Needs – that's the word, isn't it? He needs someone to scream at. Because if someone doesn't tease him until he's goddamn out of his *mind*, he's gonna end up snapping in some way Kritiker doesn't want him to. And this is good, this is safe. It doesn't even wear Youji out. Ken sees Youji smiling all the way through it, like poking fun at Ken has been the highest point of his day, except he's got Neu now, and that can't possibly be true. 

That's why Youji wants him to go for it, isn't it? Ken can't do this to him. Youji isn't a life buoy for him to hang on to when he feels like drowning. It's all he can think of while Youji's laughing. It's where his mind goes to as the card burns in his jeans, making its presence well aware, a way out, and it's the enemy, but he can use this, he can use her, it isn't wrong, he can…

"So," he stops. "What would you gift a woman?"

Youji cracks his fingers.

"Now we're talking."

**

Ken pushes a box over the table.

They are on neutral ground, a coffee shop distant enough from one of the busiest Tokyo districts, where Ken works, but far from the outskirts of the town – where Schreient works. They don't sit close to windows. Their table is chosen by discretion, and once the waitress takes their orders, Karen tips her well enough as not to show up after their coffee is served.

Weiss has killed Masafumi (though not for very long). Karen is surprised Ken manages being both cordial and diplomatic.

"For you," Ken says, stabbing the strawberry that sits on top of his cake. "I'd say I'm sorry for your loss. But not really."

The box is wrapped in lacquered black paper by someone who seems to think the correct way of doing it is by fighting the gift wrap to death. Karen slides one fingernail under the washi tape and rips it open to reveal a Shiseido lipstick, bright red. 

Perfect rouge, RD607. She's been wanting this for a while. 

"A thoughtful gift," she says, carefully. Truth to be told, it flusters her, for her enemy to be getting generous. She's thirty, and too smart for her own damn good. A man hasn't found it it him to gift her in years – and much less a boy, really. Young enough to have been a freshman at college, and not playing cops and robbers with Kritiker against forces so powerful he could not begin to comprehend. 

Ken's looks are plain, despite his body. He wears his heart on his sleeve. There's not an inch of him that dares to understand what this is.

She flicks it back over to his side of the table.

"Try it on."

"Why?" 

"Try it." Forcefully, this time, but not unkind. "I'm too old to go getting myself poisoned by a pretty kid."

"The nerve of you, woman," Ken mutters under his breathe, but he picks up the lipstick anyways, flushing pink at the challenge, if not the compliment. Karen isn't sure he knows the difference. He uncaps the lipstick and twists the bottom until a splash of color emerges. No kindness comes cheap these days, but this one, oh, Karen isn't sure Ken can afford the price tag. 

She finds herself entertained at the imagery. Her throat is suddenly dry once Ken takes the lipstick to his mouth, and smudges a trace of red over his lips, smacking them to prove his point. He thumbs it away, but not before she stares, desire blooming in her gut, as the color spreads over and Ken looks like he's been feasting on blood.

A shade too dark on his skin, she'd wager. But Karen knows something or two about colors. She snatches the lipstick out of his fingers; on her, it will look perfect.

"There's still some left over here."

"Uh?"

Ken blinks. The moment passes. The world is back on track again and he's just a kid, playing with a toy not meant for him. Karen folds a napkin and wipes the remaining lipstick away from his skin, tilting his head back, pressing the fabric against his mouth as her nails dig into the soft flesh of his cheeks, scratching, as he'd done to her.

She draws no blood, however, but rises victorious all the same. 

"Come to my place," she says on a whim. Because she wants to. Because she wants to see Weiss in a different sort of battlefield. 

His brows furrow and he surprises her once more.

"Will you walk into my parlour?" Ken recites. "The answer's obviously no." 

"I'm not playing games with you." Karen tucks the gift into her purse, chuckling to herself. "What's with an honest inquiry? Many would be honored."

"I'm not some dumb idiot." His resentment, however touching, is unwanted. 

"Of course you are. You're refusing." 

No one refuses a woman like me, that's what she means. She's got gracious curves and legs for days, and if Ken's bought her lipstick, he's been staring at her mouth. Must be why he's easy to hit.

Karen isn't worried. He's called her, after all, and each farewell shared between them is a "see you later". Resistance is part of the fun. Ken will leave, that's going to happen, but they will also meet again. Circumstances change. The fight between Kritiker and the Takatori clan is far from done, and Weiss holds no power against all the pieces in play. Schreient might be no more than a set of pawns, but even a pawn becomes a queen once she crosses the board. 

Knights, on the other hand, have limited moves.

**

"What are you doing here?"

Ken's startled to find out he doesn't know.

On top of her Louboutins, Karen towers over Ken, her already tall figure made taller by twelve-centimeters heels. Only model agencies liked their women like that, she learnt, after she was exchanged by a younger, thinner, better version of herself. But Ken doesn't seem to mind looking up like certain men do, and it warms her heart, somewhat, that the apprehension in his gaze is not due to her lack of vulnerability, but his own. He's come armed – he'd have been an idiot not to – but her stilettos will pierce him before he ever finds his gun. 

"What does it matter? I'm here."

"Indeed. Lose the jacket."

"What?"

"I thought that was the reason why you're here." Her eyebrow cocks up. "Lose the jacket."

Ken grunts and does as she commands.

Once he's free of all that unnecessary leather, Karen is able to inspect his arm. The skin has healed up nicely, though it's tender to the touch and, when she presses her thumb against it, Ken's breath hitches as if he's in pain – so she does it again. There's no mark there but the half-circle of her nail, which disappears as quickly as it shows up, and Karen suspects it isn't quite as pain as it's something else, lurking there, something Ken did not have the presence of spirit to suppress the first time, but is smart enough to hold back once Karen slides her hand further.

"You look no worse for wear."

"Your face looks good, too."

"Thank you."

"I mean– The cut!"

He blushes a delightful shade of red, and Karen is still holding him as she feigns scandal. 

"You don't think I look nice?" She bats her lashes. It's been weeks. The laceration has faded, but the bruise lingers – more so onto his brittle skin than her own. Karen is careful with her beauty routine. Ken is handsome despite all his scars and the fading bruises. "I'm even using your gift."

"Whatever."

"Oh, Ken," it's the first time she's called him by his name. "What am I supposed to do with you?"

"You aren't–"

"It's rhetorical. " 

Ken doesn't know the word, so she slides closer by, face an inch away from his. She still remembers the way the color looked on his lips. They'd match the red on his cheeks nicely enough. Despite the proximity, Ken makes no move to push her away. He's fidgety, his face betrays tension. But he doesn't move.

"Ken," she says, with patience. "Do you want to be whipped again?"

It's a slap to his face. He seriously looks slapped. It takes a split second before his heart is beating again, pulse quickening under her fingertips, and she takes it as a yes, pulling his lips to hers before he's got the chance to react.

He's a good kisser. All he lacks in experience, he compensates with enthusiasm, holding her by the waist, one hand sneaking behind her nape. She suspects it's all for show, the poor thing, because he clearly has no idea what to do with his hands besides hanging on to her for his dear life. Like he's at the edge of a precipice, just before plunging into darkness.

Karen smiles into the kiss. Oh, she's gonna find out if she likes him yet, but so far, there's nothing she wouldn't want more than to push him over and watch him fall.

It takes guidance to bring him to somewhere they can sit and Karen gets to peel his shirt off. Ken's all blunt edges and hard, rugged planes, so it's no wonder he's stiff, too, once she slides her hand under his jeans. Even his eyes grow dangerous. He's a wild thing, this one, and Karen always liked her men with a bite. But even once she wraps her fingers around his cock, all she draws is a pained grunt. 

"Oh, honey." She mutters, more to herself than him, sighing in short-lived pleasure. "Do you need me to stop?"

His fists are closed shut – just like his eyes, head shoved away from hers once the teasing becomes too much. Ken will ruin his hands if he keeps it up like that, fingers digging into skin whenever Karen tightens around him. 

Karen manages to tear words out of him, at last.

"I–" he stutters. "Don't want to hurt you." 

Her eyes widen in disbelief. Ken's earnest in his words. Karen can't help but think of the arrogance of it. How typically male, to think she's a fragile thing, when it's him under her thrall. 

"That's absurd." She traces the tip of his cock with her thumb, drawing a bead of pre-come and a stifled moan. One of her fingers dips lower and her nail scrapes the skin beneath his balls. Ken all but jumps. "To hear from one's enemy.". 

"Shit." He's horrified. "Not like that. Never like that."

"You won't hurt me."

"You can't stop m-"

Karen presses flush against his chest. Mouth against his ear, and she traps his earlobe between sharp teeth. 

"I already did, once. Should I also have to put you down? Like the dog you think you are?" She smiles, sliding away from his body, and if she didn't know better, she'd say Ken's in awe. "When I'm back, I want to see your gun on the table."

***

Sprawled on her couch, Ken takes her breath away. 

There's nothing inherently lewd about him. Just a boy, she thinks, and watching his eyes skirt away from hers, she can even buy it. He's got a trace of hesitation in the curve of his mouth; his chest expands and collapses, erratic, and betrays whatever pretense of normalcy there is to him. He's one inch from cowering – and isn't that funny? That the second she drags his attention to her, Ken makes it for his weapon.

The whip cracks against his hand. Ken's in shock. He's fast, but she's faster.

"It stays where we both can see it."

She isn't, however, with her eyes on the gun. Ken cradles his injured hand and stares at nowhere, but Karen draws closer, lips pressed together as the blood swells beneath broken skin. 

"Are you with me, now? Ken?"

"Yeah. No– yeah."

"You can't hurt me. You're just a flower shop boy."

"Alright."

"Now," she tuts, tapping his wrist where he's still pressing down the skin, "give me your hands."

For someone who's stocky and strong, there's something delicate in the way Ken lifts his wrists, vulnerable in a role he shouldn't be. 

Not as dumb as he looks like, that one. Karen picks up his hands, lifted up on front of his body, and twists his arms until his wrists cross behind his back. Karen uses a stretch of rope to tie them up, draping the jute where it won't cut off his circulation, but chafe, nonetheless. 

"We don't want you getting careless. Comfortable?"

"No."

"Good."

With a final tug, she certifies herself the rope is kept in place. If Ken thought to struggle, he'd find it's tightly woven, not for show – and not for play. Karen wants him to know she means it, when she says Ken cannot touch her. 

"It's okay." She doesn't know why she's reassuring him. Maybe she's just reassuring herself, massaging the muscles of his arms so they don't cramp under the tension applied. Her whip is tied to her waist, and digs into his hip whenever she gets too close, a stark contrast to the kindness of her words. "You're okay."

"Are you going to kill me?" He asks. He's not blaming her, he's stating it as a possible outcome. 

"Do you think I went through all this trouble to kill you?"

He laughs– "I think I wouldn't mind if you did."

Now there's him, bare underneath his every defense. Karen chews on her bottom lip. It takes a whole lot of effort on her part not to grin. Ken is… Something else, alright. He's gagging for it, not because Karen drags the hand that's on his arms up, up, until it reaches his neck, but because he thinks she will squeeze.

"I believe you'd rather enjoy the alternative."

Her thumb rolls over his Adam's apple. Ken stops breathing; she doesn't even need to crush his windpipe. He just stops. His pupils are blown wide, the green disappearing beneath shades of black. Such a good-natured young man, and they've twisted and turned and shaped him into a tool to wield. She knows Ken belongs to Kritiker, but for the moment he's hers, for Karen to do as she pleases.

"What do you say?"

He's in a daze. Ken's finding comfort in the bonds, still squirming, but he forces her hand. It's not her fault, really, and he wants this. 

The slap catches him by surprise. He's Ken all over again, then, cheeks tinted with righteous indignation. He's furious. Karen slaps him a second time. 

"What the– ?!" 

"Wrong answer." She hits him on the other cheek for good measure. He's so pissed off he cannot speak. His mouth opens. Like a little fish, she things, and she wonders what he'll look like, if she stuffs something inside it. Men look better with their mouths shut. "What do you say?"

"How the hell should I know?!"

And yet she fails to see him struggling free of his bonds. 

Karen makes her way to the couch, knowing Ken's gaze trail after her, crawling up her legs and disappearing beneath the seams of her skirt. She nearly hears him gulp. The wheels are still turning in his head once she slides her hands under the garment and her panties fall to her knees, then to her ankles, caught trapped under the tip of her heel before she sits and kicks it away. 

She crosses her legs, and the skirt reveals an inch of flesh not covered by the stockings she wears. Ken looks about to pass out.

Men. And they still think they can hurt her. 

Karen scoffs loudly, and watches as Ken turns his head away, so fast he loses balance and stumbles before regaining his footing. He's making a show of staring at her unimpressive collection of wall paintings, so Karen drags her whip up. It uncoils as a snake until the tail smacks the floor.

It could be Ken. They both know.

He looks at her. 

Karen smiles.

"What do you say when someone does you a favor?" She prompts him. When Ken says nothing, still flushed to the tip of his ears, trembling, now, Karen urges him to go further. "You're a brave kid. Go on. Be brave."

It takes Ken a lot of stuttering – and he isn't the stuttering kind – for him to spit out the words.

"Thank you."

It kinda sounds like "fuck you", but progress is progress. She curls the whip around his ankle and drags him to the floor by her feet.

There're more improvements to be made.

***

He isn't brave. He isn't good, either, so it's fucking humiliating when Schön whispers it by his ear, approval rolling off of her tongue. Like he's too stupid to figure out by himself, and he's gotta have her telling exactly what she thinks of him. Ken huffs, but it isn't entirely displeasure that courses through his body. 

She doesn't say the right things. He kills people, he can't make that go away, and he'd kill her too. She should kill him. Except she isn't, she's caressing his skin, peppering kisses all the way over to his collarbone, making him shiver and groan and– And want things he shouldn't be wanting, in return. 

His fingers tremble with the need to claw his way out of the restrains, which is why he knows he– can't. He can't want this, not like this, not with her, not while dreaming of tearing through flesh and bone. She's warm and soft and smells of flowers, but it's the coppery tang to her scent that gets him hard, it's the nails raking down his back that tears the breath away from him. 

Schön is just like him.

Shit. Ken is faint with excitement. He doesn't want to think about what this means. Can't he just have this?, he wonders, laying his head on the softness of her thigh. It's different than what he had with Yuriko, but not in a bad way. 

"You'll pull a muscle if you think too much." Schön laughs. She's laughing at him and not with him, and even this is nice. It gets his face hot with shame. Kinda like when Youji teases him, but – dangerous, he thinks. Schön isn't his friend. Youji isn't, either, but they're all on the same side at the end of the day, while Schön would have him murdered. That should make it worse, except it doesn't. "You came here on your own, so don't pretend you don't want this."

He dares to press his mouth to the underside of her knee, and Schön shifts, allowing him to kiss further and try not to remember Yuriko, guiding him through the motions. She'd been sweet. She didn't care that he was scared, and she hadn't laughed at him, either, she'd just wanted to spend time together, to touch him and guide his hands through her body. She didn't mind how callused they were in comparison to her own. 

Schön grabs him by the hair, yanking his head back. 

"What are you thinking about?"

"You have rough hands."

The slap stings. It's frightening how much he wants it. It's fucked up, but before his mind goes there, Schön slaps him again and he's groaning. Like he's some sort of animal. Ken can't stop himself, though, she just drags it out of him, working through the sudden pain he feels and twisting it into something she can use. And that's– that's good. He doesn't have to think when it comes to this. And she must've seen right through him, because she does it again, and again, until he's left panting and drooling over her expensive skirt. 

"Don't think so hard," she says, ruffling his hair. 

This time, it's easier to obey. 

***

Karen fights the need to wrap Ken in blankets every time they're done.

The perks of Ken being the enemy, she supposes, is that she can de-stress and not feel guilty about it. Just sweaty, bloody fucking; fucking that's almost fighting. One day, it will all come crumbling down on their heads, but she doubts lack of proper aftercare will have anything to do with it. There's always something self-destructive about people who live the sort of life they do. Karen's damn near suicidal to accept Weiss into her private quarters. But Ken? 

One could hardly believe Kritiker has shaped someone with so little survival instinct into such a good weapon.

(Maybe that's all there's to it. Maybe Ken just needs someone to point him at the right direction and say, "Fetch!", and "Heel, boy!", and pat him on the head at a job well done. Karen sadly isn't that person – but what a lovely piece of knowledge to own.)

"I had a girlfriend, you know" Ken says, once they're laying in bed. They don't sleep – they'd be fools to – but talking is nearly as foolish. Karen occupies herself with smoking, which usually stops her from saying anything back, but this time, she replies.

"Did she die?"

"No. She moved."

"Where?"

"Austrialia," Ken shrugs, figuring Karen cannot reach her there. It's true. She ends up sobbing with laughter. The tears swell on her eyes, and they just keep coming.

"Australia? That's basically the same thing!"

"Hey!"

"I doubt she's even real."

"She was."

"See?" 

Karen sits, taking the blankets together with her. She takes a perverse pleasure in watching Ken's skin glow under the lamp light, the tan fading into black and blue, and red stripes where she grew overexcited. He never quite stops flushing when she catches him naked. When he's overwhelmed – yeah. But not when he's fully conscious of what he's doing. 

There's nothing she wants more than to tear away this restraint. 

"See what?"

"You're talking about her in the past tense."

Ken fetches his shirt in an attempt to cover up. It leaves him something to do, besides replying to her words. Sometimes, when Ken talks too much, she just wants him to shut up.

"I'm leaving." 

"That's soon. Why? Is Weiss bothering you?"

"No." He slides into his pants. From Ken, "no" means none of your business.

"I know, for a fact, that your Balinese might be otherwise occupied."

Ken glares at her from behind his shoulder. Karen shrugs. She knows his opinion on Neu and his little boyfriend screwing, and frankly, she feels the same. It's not her place to decide, however, and wouldn't it be nice, if Weiss left their own to themselves, as Schreient did?

"It's not my fault he's in love with her," she says, once Ken is done pulling his jacket. 

"It's her fault."

"Say, are you in love with me?"

"Of course not!"

And, because her pride is bruised and she wants to make him pay, she adds, "Is it about the sex?"

"Shut up!" 

She'll never get tired of watching him blush.

"So, we are settled. It's not her fault. I thought you were the dumb one, but that's him alright." Karen flips her hair. It cascades down her chest, and she knows the effect it has on men; the effect it never had on Ken. "She's not even the prettiest."

Ken grunts.

"What?"

"'s younger than you."

Which would've made her lost her head, except it's Ken, and she's growing used to him. Karen falls back into the sheets, naked as the day she was born, and if that doesn't tempt him into staying, he's a lost cause.

That's okay, though. As long as she keeps giving Ken what he needs, he'll come back. For now, he all but stumbles on his way to the door, ignoring what he's leaving behind. Busy ignoring the pain flaring into his body, or the relief – or probably coming up with excuses for another late arrival.

Karen cannot imagine being him. She cannot imagine to come back, over and over, for someone who will end up killing her, in the end. And once Ken shuts the door closed, she looks at her own hands and wonders if she'll truly have to.


End file.
